HUSBAND VS. DOG

So I read this short article someplace, maybe Reader’s Digest, about how we should try to treat our spouses like our dogs. In a good way. And I started thinking about this. Yes, I give my dog more affection than I give my husband. Yes, I excuse more bad behavior from my dog. No, I don’t mind cleaning up after my dog.

But here’s the thing: If my husband ACTED like my dog, I wouldn’t have a problem treating him like my furry baby! For example, if he ran up to me with such excitement every time I came home, even if I’d only been in the back yard for 5 minutes, so, so happy to see me. Or if he looked at me with such gratitude and love in his eyes every single time I gave him any small amount of affection. Or if, when I asked him to do something, he just did it without uttering a word. Or when I put my cold feet under his belly to keep them warm, he didn’t even move or complain. Or if I do something wrong or a little mean, he instantly forgives me. Or how he somehow senses when I’m having a bad day and snuggles next to me as much as he can.

**Sigh** I love my dog!

Oh, maybe this is what the article meant. Maybe this is how I’m supposed to act toward my husband.  Hmmm, I’ll have to ponder that. But I’m definitely drawing the line at the cold feet under the belly!

Karen

OH, GROW UP AND BE A MAN!

I don’t want to get on a male-bashing tirade, but seriously, why do men act like babies when they get sick? Did their mothers coddle them too much? Uh, oh, does that mean I’m setting up my own boys to be big babies for their wives when they get sick? Should I just tell them to “suck it up” and “be a man” when they have a fever? Okay, obviously I won’t do that, but I sure would like to say that to my DH!

After all, when I get sick, there certainly isn’t anyone around to take care of me, is there? I’m still expected to carry on with my mommy-duties as if everything was fine and normal. I don’t get time off when I’m sick, do you? But the really funny thing is that DH doesn’t see this at all. He somehow has this convoluted idea that I lay around all day and night when I’m not feeling well, and he does everything around the house for me and the kids. Is he kidding?

Okay, I sound like I’m whining. And I guess I am male-bashing a bit, or at least DH-bashing! And although there have been times when he overreacted a bit (Once he had a cold and seriously thought he was dying and should go to the emergency room! No, really!), he definitely is sick this time. So I should be much more sympathetic, right? After all, he is my husband and I do love him, and I did promise to care for him in sickness and in health and blah, blah, blah.

(Shoot, there I go again. I’d better stop before somebody shows this to him!)

So I want to know: Is it just me or do other wives go through this also? Please give me some hope that my boys won’t turn out this way!

Karen

Thursday Thoughts-Stinkin' Disposal!

I'm swearing off the garbage disposal. It and I just don't get along. Last night, for about the fourth time in a year I clogged it up and could not get it to budge. Note that saying it was the fourth time I could not get it unclogged does not count all of the times I DID get the Alka Seltzer/Vinegar/Hot Water potion to work. I tried it three times last night and even added bleach, but to no avail.

I don't understand why a disposal is standard issue in a kitchen. The only thing it does for me is tell me what I should NOT put down there. No peelings. No pasta. No rice.  All of those things swell. No coffee grinds. Definitely no grease. Vegetables and cores make it sound like the garbage truck compacting heaps of trash. Spinach. . .  nah, that was a green, gooey, stinky mess. Egg shells seem to work okay, but that's about it. 

Being ever the optimist, I keep trying. And it keeps getting clogged. I don't know who in the heck designed it, but last night I found the problem. You see, I couldn't bear to hear my husband lecture me about what to and what not to put in the disposal so I decided to unclog it myself. Which probably would have been okay if we would have had a pipe wrench to begin with. After about half an hour of struggling with it, and having to hear the beginning of my husband's lecture which was cut short by a curt and deadly," This is not the time. Really." statement, I called my neighbor and her husband, who is all things mechanical, answered the phone. Even HE didn't own a pipe wrench. 

What the heck?!

But he WAS able to loan me some kind of wrench with teeth that actually helped me get the thing apart. I discovered last night that the lead in pipe is about a half inch wider than the place where the cross pipe joins, thus causing bottleneck, particularly when it comes to peelings that didn't get ground up in the first place.

This was, of course, after the pipe had exploded its nasty, stinky mess all over my pants and everything within a five foot radius.  

I actually managed to get it unclogged- without my husband's help. AND more importantly, I got it put back together and it works really, really good.

But no matter. I'm swearing off the garbage disposal. That certainly beats swearing AT it. And I'm going to the store to buy a pipe wrench.

Yours, wanting a moment to talk to the designer of those evil machines,

Melissa

Thursday Thoughts-Free Time

So I've been encountering this, shall we say, phenomenon, lately.  Basking in the thought of my children returning to school, my husband looks at me and says,"So honey, what ARE you going to do with all of that FREE time?"

The same thing happened to a girlfriend of mine. And then to Karen. 

Do any of those Y Chromosome People understand that that is a PERFECT way to get an instant Personal Safety Day?

Because, you know, when the kids aren't around, I just lay about the house, twiddling my thumbs, longing for a nose to wipe, a meal to clean up after, yearning to complete the laundry.

Never mind that I actually have paying jobs. But I guess those don't count because, you know, I'm at home most of the day.

So today, I went to my tiny little office  where I teach. It's a shared office, an  a colleague of mine, whom I simply adore, was already there. We began talking and he looked at me with his mischievous eyes and sly grin and said,"So Melissa, now that the kids are back in school, what are you going to do with all your FREE time?!" 

I just looked at him and said,"Tell me, PLEASE tell me you did not say that to your beautiful wife on the first day of school."

"ARE YA KIDDIN' ME?!" he replied. "Melissa, I turned 50 this summer, and there are a few things I've learned you just don't say to your wife. And THAT is definitely one of them."

Now you know why I adore him. I just hope that I don't have to wait for my darling hubby to turn 50 before he learns that lesson. Otherwise, it might be a long decade with a lot of personal safety days.

Yours, burning all my FREE TIME,

Melissa

Mommy's Personal Safety Day

       I love being a mommy. I never intended on being a mommy, but sometimes, these things happen. (It was all planned, but I never thought I would it plan that way.) I love being married, too. All in all, I have a pretty good life- not much worth complaining about.

Occasionally, though, I have what I like to label as a "Personal Safety Day". I don't know what happens to me, but something kinda turns inside me and I feel like it is probably to the benefit of every one's personal safety that I remove myself from civilized society. (Truth: I KNOW what's happening to me, I just don't like to blame it on that. I asked my doc about it and he said,"Welcome to the club." OY.) Basically, on a "Personal Safety Day", I'm okay unless someone talks to me. And since living with three other people generally requires some sort of interaction, someone talking to me is inevitable. And I do my best to be pleasant, but invariably, something will happen that just hits the trigger and before I can stop, I say something to the effect of," For your own personal safety, it is probably a good idea to give me a little space."  So you can see why I would  feel it is necessary to remove myself from society (civilized and otherwise) on those days.   

I realized I was having one yesterday when I finally said to my husband,"You know, you have really irritated me like, FOUR TIMES in the last twenty minutes. I think I just want to throw something at you."

He looks at me and says,"Hmmmm . . .  having a "Personal Safety Day" over there?"

Yep.

News travels fast in the B household. "Kiiiiiiidddds!!!!" he calls out. They flock to the bathroom (where I am still in the tub just wanting to take a bath in peace). 

"Mommy is having a "Personal Safety Day," he informs them.

"Uh-oh," says my boy. "You know what that means. . . " he says, looking at his sister.

"Yep," she says. "We had better get to our rooms for our own personal safety." And they scamper off, laughing all the way down the hall.

The good news is it usually passes within a day.  And that I'm not in denial over it. After all, admission is the first part of the process of healing. Oh yeah, I own it. I know it.  But at least I've trained them to take cover.

Yours, thankful it is passing,

Melissa

Here, Honey, Let Me Help You With That. . .

     For the last few weeks my husband has been between jobs.  He was let go from his last position on New Year's Eve.  Needless to say, that night was a little more red wine than champagne. The good news is, he accepted a position with a new company today and will begin work this coming Monday.

     Now, before we go any further, I feel that I must reassure you that I DO love my husband.  However, three weeks of complete togetherness is like getting a third child without the preparation of pregnancy, or the two complete years it takes the infant to learn how to voice their opinions. (Breathing in . . . . breathing out. . . .)  Such togetherness can sometimes be, how shall I put it politely, challenging. (Read: He's lucky to have his limbs left).  Granted, I am no angel and come complete with my own set of flaws, idiosyncrasies and boundaries. But here is where I draw the line. . . .

     For the last almost eight years, I have been the primary bather/feeder/nose and bottom wiper/ discipliner/homework guide/kids carting/house keeper/launderer/still working three part time jobs outside the home parent. It's my job. I'm perfectly fine with it.  We agreed when we decided to join the parenting club that one of us would need to have this position.  To be fair, he does help some, but this particular workload falls to me most of the time.  More often than not, I do a pretty fair job.  But the last three weeks have been filled with little comments such as. . . 

     "You know honey, if you would just . . . ."

"You really should do it like this. . . ."

"What in the world are you trying to do over there. . . ?"

"Oh my- what happened here?"

"See- nothing to it!"

About sometime this weekend, I looked at him after one of those insightful remarks were made and simply said,"My love, I know you want to help. But indulge me a moment. Allow me to offer you a little insight. You are an IT Project Manager, yes? And I am a musician, correct? As a musician, I would never, EVER presume to walk into your office and start offering you copious amounts of unsolicited advice because, well, I just don't know that much about your job.  And to be frank, it is getting on my last nerve and I'm not sure that even that last one is whole."

He looked in my eyes, took my hand and said,"You are an amazing wife and mother. I'm going to go into the other room now."

Smart, smart, man. The kind of man that knows how to keep all his body parts.

Yours, looking forward to a little bit of my own space in the coming days,

Melissa

Yeah, It's In the Book

   "Melissa, any moron can have a baby. YOU will make a fine mother," said my doctor.  I was late in my seventh month of my first pregnancy.  He had just asked me how I was feeling- emotionally. At that moment I began, much to my husband's horror, weeping uncontrollably. If you ever want to freak a man out, just begin weeping uncontrollably. Gets them every time. My husband and doctor looked at each other with the infamous "Dare We Tread Here" Look and The Doc asked me,"What's wrong, dear?"

"Doc, I just don't think I can do this. I've been thinking about it for three days now and I have decided that I am going to have to give the baby up for adoption," I stated with resignation.

"ADOPTION!?!?!" shrieked the men in unison. In a split second my husband was at my side and The Doc asked,"What do you mean? Don't think you can do what?"

Sniff-gasp-sniff-gasp-"Take care of this-sniff-gasp- baby," I replied between sobs. "There's just too-sniff-gasp-much to remember. What if I miss something? -sniff-gasp- I just know I'm going to do something wrong and screw up my child for the rest of his or her life!"  Mwaaaaaaahhhhhh!

"Okay, okay, wait a minute," said The Doc. "Melissaaaa. . . . .have you been reading that book I told you to throw away?"

Silence. Sniff-gasp. Guilty face. Sniff-gasp. Head hung low, I whispered a sheepish,"Yes." 

The Doc slapped his hand to his forehead."Honey, that's why I told you to throw it away. It's a horrible book. Melissa, any moron can have a baby. YOU will make a fine mother."

That was over seven years ago. I don't know how fine a mother I am, but I do know I've read countless books, watched more TV programs, scanned innumerable magazine articles and discussed ad nauseum this adventure of motherhood.  I've even written a manual for my OWN children with a friend of mine. And not a day goes by that I don't think,"Hhmph. Never read about THAT in the books!"

If you're a mom, parent, caregiver, aunt, uncle, grandparent, teacher, day care provider, anyone who cares for children in any capacity, then you know what I say is true. And at some point, you've probably experienced those same emotions that have told you," I canNOT do this! I am totally incapable!" Yet something happens and you reach a little deeper, pick up the child, hold them for a moment (or, depending on the situation, send them to their room for their own safety) and we travel on.  But one thing's for sure, there's no book that covers everything caring for a child means, requires and gives back.

Yours, unable to believe it's been over seven years already!

Melissa